Victorious Children
by Tobu Ishi
Summary: He volunteers to protect his sister. She dedicates her life to a new dream. He sees himself in an unlikely ally. She vows to choose her own fate. We will be victorious. Ladies and gentlemen, let the Sixty-eighth Hunger Games begin! (A RotBTD/Hunger Games AU, rated for eventual violence.)
1. The Reaping

.

**THE REAPING**  
_(District 5, Power)_

* * *

"Emma Forrester."

Her name echoes faintly off the walls around the square, and in that moment, Jack's heart stops.

The other boys in the reaping pen shift uneasily, casting sidelong glances his way, but Jack doesn't notice their muttering. This is all his nightmares come true, and all he can hear is the rushing in his ears. His vision has gone tunnel, as if he's been given an electric shock, narrowing until all he can see is Emma's frightened face.

The Peacekeepers are leading her up to the stage, past the ranks of older children. His baby sister walks as bravely as she can, with her little shoulders squared, but she has gone so pale that every freckle stands out on her soft cheeks like a tiny dark bruise.

She's only thirteen. Why the hell wasn't Jack born a girl, so he could jump up and save her, the way he always has?

The back of his neck itches, and he turns to look over his shoulder. His mother stands wrapped in her old blue shawl, alone in a little gap in the crowd, surrounded by whispering men and women who have drawn away from her slightly, as if her family's terrible luck might be contagious. She is almost imperceptibly shaking her head at him, eyes wide and full of tears. No. Jack. No, please. This is his last reaping, and he is all she'll have left.

Jack forces a smile onto his face, the old slightly wicked grin. Then he closes his eyes, and turns away from her for the last time. I'll send her back to you, Ma, he thinks. Safe and sound. I promise.

The escort from the Capitol is fishing in the boys' lottery box. He unfolds the paper and starts to read it aloud.

"Sa-"

"I volunteer!"

A murmur runs through the crowd. Thousands of eyes stare at Jack's tousled dark hair, his determined smile, his arm held high. Unmissable. Unmistakable.

Trapped behind the ropes that section off the audience, their mother bursts into tears.


	2. The Farewells (1)

.

**THE FAREWELLS**  
_(District 1, Luxury Goods)_

* * *

He panicked, that's all. They'd already chosen the female tribute, and the lady from the Capitol was unfolding the paper and reading out the name, and he was looking around at all the other young Careers in his year shuffling their feet and eyeing each other, especially the massive thick-necked boy who was supposed to step forward formally after the token reading and announce himself as this year's volunteer, and suddenly the only thought in Flynn's mind was, _I'm gonna die either way._

He's eighteen years old and he hasn't got any skills except what they taught him in the district foster center and at the factory. He can already imagine his entire short lifetime of assembling fiddly little jewelry, spooling out to its pitiful and premature end in his mind's eye. He's seen it before, kids too old to keep training at the center, filching and fencing product to survive until the Peacekeepers catch them and beat them boneless. If he doesn't get a broken rib kicked into his lungs, it'll be winter cold or chemical poisoning or plain old starvation, and nobody will miss him. Nobody will miss one parentless charity case with a knack for knives. Nobody has ever cared what happens to Flynn Rider, except himself.

And after this final fleeting chance to be useful, nobody will ever help him again.

"If anyone so chooses-"

The words burst out of him like a gunshot before the woman was finished reading. "I volunteer!" Heads whipped around to stare at him in shock. The guy whose position he'd stolen glared bloody-eyed murder at him, but if they let volunteers volunteer for volunteers, the reaping in District 1 would never be over.

The other prospective tributes jostled Flynn with their shoulders as he walked through them, but none of them dared wreck him right there and damage their district's chances in this year's Games.

There was a grin on Flynn's face that their anger and confusion couldn't wipe away as he mounted the stairs. He's going to look like ten tons of cocky dynamite on the recap reels, and he knows it. This is his trademark - he's always been the fastest into the fray, and out again before they know what hit 'em. He can win this. He can survive. He doesn't have to die inhaling chemical fumes in a dingy gray sweatshop.

He feels so good about the whole thing, in fact, that it barely hurts at all as he sits out his mandatory hour of farewells at City Hall. Alone, except for the echoes of an empty room.


	3. The Farewells (2)

.

**THE FAREWELLS (2)**  
_(District 9, Grain)_

* * *

When they swing open the doors to admit her next visitors, what Rapunzel sees first is the flowers. A dozen shades of bright petals, spilling over each other in a summery shower of beauty.

Her aunt's little daughters, all four of them, stand in the doorway with their arms full of wildflowers.

Rapunzel's heart leaps into her throat, pounding with joy and sadness all twisted up together. Quickly, she wipes the traces of tears from her cheeks and lets her unexpected happiness clear the clouds from her face.

"Oh! They're beautiful! Did you pick those all just now for me?"

The girls nod, plaited heads bobbing like barley stalks in a breeze, but they don't say a word. They're all silent, looking up at her with wide frightened eyes. The oldest is twelve this year; Rapunzel remembers the way she cried this morning, the way her mother tried to calm her, holding her close and smoothing her auburn braids. It could have been that little girl saying goodbye to her parents in this dusty room with its moth-eaten furniture, but it isn't. Because of Rapunzel, it isn't. That happy knowledge blooms in her grieving heart like a flower.

"Thank you, so much." Rapunzel opens her arms to her cousins, and is immediately clutched from all sides by warm little arms, burrowing as close as they can.

The smallest girl starts to sob, wet sticky face pressed into Rapunzel's shoulder, and her sisters shush her. "We don't have _time_ for that," the second-oldest says obstinately. "We have to make her pretty, remember?"

And that, to Rapunzel's amazement, is how their remaining time together is spent. She kneels obediently on the floor, and those deft little hands weave through her hair, plaiting in a wealth of flowers, the way she's done for them and they for her at every planting festival. The eldest tucks a single nodding head of golden wheat behind her ear as a finishing touch, and Rapunzel laughs through the tears in her eyes. The bounty of home. She'll wear it proudly all the way to the Capitol.

She hugs every one of them, tight and warm, before the Peacekeepers usher them out.


	4. The Train

.

**THE TRAIN**  
_(District 10, Livestock)_

* * *

She's sitting with her back to him, staring out the window of the train at the green blur of the forest whirring past. Hiccup has never seen the forest this close before. He'd be over there himself, watching it in fascination, if it wasn't for the aura of cold hostility radiating from that blond head.

"Astrid," he says. That single word shatters the awkward silence like a china plate.

Her fingers tighten on the seat cushion until her knuckles go white, but she doesn't turn around. "I don't care if you _are_ the mayor's son." Her voice is harsh and determined and strong. _She's_ strong. Hiccup's seen her hollering at cattle ten times her own size and dragging them around by the horns since they were schoolchildren. It's a beautiful voice, harshness and all. "I don't care if everybody in the District pools their money to sponsor you. I'm going home."

Finally she turns to look at him. Her blue eyes pierce through him, every sorry inch of him, and Hiccup feels pinned to his seat.

"No matter what I have to do," she declares, and turns back to the view from the window.

Hiccup tries to think of something to say to that, but the memory of how Astrid's parents sobbed while she walked straight-backed and calm up the steps of the stage is still fresh. So is the look on his father's bearded face, the way his words of encouragement grasped at straws, talking about sponsors and doing his best. Sponsorship will be wasted on skinny, clumsy Hubert Haddock, a boy so hopeless that the nickname was almost an improvement, but his father will try to get it to him anyway, and Astrid's family is dirt poor. Hiccup is aware of all of that, with painful clarity. For once, nothing worth saying comes to mind.

"Fair enough," he says, lamely, for the sake of some kind of comeback, and quietly leaves the train car. The door slides shut behind him.

Astrid waits, listening until his footsteps fade away. Then she leans her face against her knees, curls into a ball on the train seat and finally, silently, lets the tears slide down her cheeks.


	5. Midnight

.

**MIDNIGHT**  
_(District 7, Lumber)_

* * *

In the silent darkness of her bunk, Merida can hear the soft _clack_ each time the train rushes over a break in the high-speed rails. Years ago, when she was small enough to hide behind the old overstuffed armchair in the corner of his office, she overheard her father discussing the railways with one of his team foremen. Long ago, before the districts made war against the Capitol, all of Panem was linked together by iron tracks that ran right across the ground, over thousands and thousands of wooden crosspieces. The forests of District 7 supplied the foundation for the veins and arteries of their great nation.

Now, of course, the trains hover on mile-long bars of magnetic metal, and their maintenance is in the hands of another district. Every metallic _clack_ carries Merida another mile away from the cool green shade of the tall, sighing trees where she ran and played and practiced with her little wooden bow.

But still. There was a time when her forests would have spanned the country from sea to sea, supporting every turn of the wheels, all the way to the Capitol. Nothing can change the truth of their history; and stories have power. Merida hugs her pillow to her chest and smiles fiercely into the dark.

The odds are against her surviving this game, and she knows it. She has known it since the moment her mother cupped her face tenderly in her hands, with the lines of age suddenly painfully sharp around her eyes, and assured her that they would do everything within their power to help her fight her way home. Elinor Dunbroch's voice only shook a little. It was hardly noticeable.

But Merida had never heard her mother's voice tremble before.

Still, she has her advantages. She's been wandering the forests since she was small, and she knows a thing or two about survival. She can wield a knife or an axe. She will have her family's money behind her in the Games. And if they can send her a bow, she'll be nigh unstoppable.

Something squirms uneasily in her stomach when that thought crosses her mind - something intangible and cold. Suddenly she remembers her father's strong, warm grip on her shoulders, as he bent to look into her eyes. _Whatever happens,_ he'd told her in his rumbling north-forest burr, _ye're still our own wee lass, and we are proud of ye. Dinnae forget that, darlin'._

Merida shivers, and turns over, burying her face in the soft mattress. _Whatever happens_, she thinks, stubbornly, as the train bears her on and on through the unfamiliar night. Mile by mile, ever closer to that first step into the arena and, most likely, the end of her life.

She is a DunBroch, of the northern woods. There must be some path left to her, something she can do, to truly make her parents proud.


	6. Breakfast

.

**BREAKFAST**

* * *

The meal laid out on the table is breathtaking. Pure white linen, softly clinking silver and china and crystal. Bowls of glistening fruit and colorful flowers dazzle Rapunzel's eyes, and she claps her hands to her mouth in wonderment.

"Well, don't stand there staring, child. Heaven knows you'll need the nourishment."

Rapunzel blinks, startled. There's no sign of her fellow tribute, other than a dirty plate left abandoned, but she recognizes Maia Gothel immediately - everyone in District 9 is familiar with their victors. They are too rare not to be treasured. And Maia is more unforgettable than most, with her cascade of dark curls and regal posture.

So this is her mentor. Rapunzel smiles shyly at her, and the woman smiles back, sweetly, as if they're old friends.

"Don't be shy, now." Maia pats the chair next to her, and Rapunzel edges around the table toward it, careful of the swaying rhythm of the train. The plush carpet feels marvelous between her toes; but Maia glances down at her bare feet, and her mouth purses suddenly into a disapproving frown. "Barefoot, child? Really?"

Rapunzel blushes and sits down quickly, tucking her feet under the long hem of her dress. "I-I couldn't find any shoes," she mumbles, feeling foolish. She rarely wore them at home, but it feels like the wrong thing to admit just now.

"Oh, you poor dear." Maia is all smiles again, efficiently piling Rapunzel's plate with a dozen kinds of sliced fruit and meat. "Of course you wouldn't know better, raised in the fields like that. You're hardly more than a baby! Never you mind, that's what I'm here for." Rapunzel opens her mouth to point out that she'll be eighteen next month - that Maia was raised in the same fields - but her mentor playfully pops a fresh strawberry between her lips, corking her protests.

Obediently, Rapunzel chews, while Maia looks her over from head to toe. "Well, I'm sure we'll make something of you, one way or another," she sighs. "I don't suppose you know anything useful already?"

Rapunzel swallows. "I can play the guitar," she says, with a touch of pride. Musical instruments are precious in the far-flung districts; hers belonged to her grandfather. "And dance, and my pies are -"

"_Useful_, darling, not decorative," Maia interrupts, with a laugh that tinkles like breaking glass. "Come now. Surely you must know _something_ we can turn to your advantage in the arena?"

Ever since Rapunzel was old enough to help, she has worked alongside her parents in the fields, harvesting the golden wheat. She can handle a scythe as deftly as a rolling pin or a guitar.

Rapunzel bites her lip. "No," she mumbles. "N-not really." The lie sits heavy on her tongue.

Her mentor sighs and sits back in her chair with a little shake of her head.

"Pity," she says, and spears a slice of melon with her table knife. "Ah, well. It's not the end of the world. Why, in my Games, half the Careers poisoned themselves eating the wrong berries!" She laughs brightly again, and gives Rapunzel what is surely meant to be an encouraging smile. "Who knows? Perhaps you'll get lucky, too."

Goosebumps prickle on Rapunzel's skin. "Mm," she murmurs, and finishes her breakfast in silence.


	7. The Prep Rooms

.

**THE PREP ROOMS**

* * *

When the glittering spires of the Capitol rose into view - when the crowds surged through the streets, waving and shouting encouragement like lumberjacks placing bets at a cockfight, eager for first blood - when she saw their strange and colorful faces, bright as spring flowers and splashes of blood - all Merida could think was, _I won't let ye change me. I won't let ye beat me into something I'm not._

She didn't hesitate when they called her name, when they led her onto the train, when they fed her unfamiliar food and quizzed her for everything she knew about how to kill.

The first thing to stop her short was not the sight of her opponents on the reaping recap - not even the massive boy from District Two who elbows his twin out of the way in his eagerness to volunteer and climb the stage.

Not even Duncan Macintosh, her supposed partner from the western woods, who has spoken all of two words to her since the reaping, who spent the trip to the Capitol glowering out the window and pocketing the cutlery, and who seems to have swiftly forgotten that their fathers knew each other or that he was among the boys clamoring to dance with her at the Harvest Festival last year.

No, what shakes Merida is not the promise of battle.

She walks into that pristine operating-room atmosphere all unawares. Her main concern is the flimsy medical gown they've dressed her in, flapping open at the back. And then she sees what is happening behind those clean white curtains, and her legs bolt before her head remembers where she is.

It takes two Peacekeepers to carry her there and hold her limbs while her prep team belts her to the table with padded straps, cinched down across waist and thighs and ankles and on and on. Still she struggles and bucks against the cold steel surface, shouting every rude word her brothers and father ever taught her. She doesn't plead and she doesn't beg, but she tells the strange iridescent people around her exactly what she thinks of their work. Whatever the Capitol wants them to make of her, it is a lie, and she refuses to make it easy for them.

The flash of a silver needle, unseen at the corner of her vision until - too late - it nips sharply at one immobilized arm, makes her lie limp at last.

Merida stares dully at the ceiling, under a blanket of drugged torpor, while her prep team strips the hair from her body, bleaches away her freckles, and douses her head in chemicals and lotions that turn her frizzy locks into a sleek tumble of red-gold curls. The unfortunate woman assigned to file her bitten nails into perfect ovals discovers, with a gasp of offense, that she must first pry loose all but one extended finger from the girl's drowsily clenched fist.


	8. The Stylists

.

**THE STYLISTS**

* * *

It isn't that bad. It really isn't. Jack's been through worse in his life, and he knows it: bruising falls from the power scaffolding, an accidental shock that threw him twenty feet and broke his arm on impact, a fight behind the district schoolhouse that left him _almost_ as black and blue as the other guys. Compared to that, getting stripped and scrubbed and plucked and sanded raw by a flock of featherheaded Capitol fashion-plates is a walk in the park. Right?

There's just a sterile curtain between his prep room and his little sister's, and he can hear them talking to her, murmuring in soothing tones. He can't help feeling relieved when he realizes her attendants are all female, too - not that he's exactly _comfortable_ with the trio of Capitol girls fluttering around him, but for Emma's sake, he can deal.

When he catches the smallest fashionista sneaking a curious glance at him as she trims his hair, he gives her a brilliant smile. "Hey," he says, for all the world as if he was dressed in his best and she was the prettiest girl at the harvest dance. "What's your name, anyway? You do have names, right?"

The young woman flushes pink right up to her glittering hairline, and nearly drops her scissors. She doesn't answer him - one of the other girls snatches the scissors and takes her place, giving her a _look_ that sends her flitting off to dump bottles of frothy white chemicals into a basin instead - but Jack feels smug all the same. Her blushing retreat is a tiny confirmation that he's still a person, for all their attempts to trim and reshape him like an inanimate garden hedge.

He hasn't the slightest clue what's in that basin, but he lets them guide him into a chair and tilt his head back into it anyway. It's cold when it hits his skin, so cold that he gasps out loud, and it _stings_ when the glittery girls rub it into his scalp. Even their mother's homemade lye soap never stung like this stuff. "Ow! Hey!"

"Jack?" His sister's voice is muffled by the curtain, but he can hear her distress, and it stops his struggles short.

"I'm fine!" he calls back. "Water's a little cold, that's all!" He can hear her giggle over the splashing of gloved hands in the basin, and the sound loosens a tight knot under his ribs that he had forgotten was there.

They're already rinsing the chemical stuff away, and the smallest attendant is back, helping him into a soft white robe. "_Thank_ you," he tells her, with audible relief, and she actually smiles. "So, are we done yet, or what?" He can't think what _else_ they could do at this point, short of actual plastic surgery...

"Actually, we're just getting started," says a bright, cheerful voice.

Jack turns around, and chokes on a yelp of shock. The attendants look almost normal compared to this woman. She barely comes up to his chin, but her tropical rainbow of hair and sparkling false lashes flood the room with color and light. "Bring his sister in, girls," she orders, and stands tiptoe to push her face uncomfortably close to his. Her eyes are enormous, the irises colored a freakish bright pink. "How _did_ you keep your teeth so nice?" she coos. "I was afraid we'd have to bleach them, you see the most _awful_ smiles sometimes from the districts, but..."

She chatters on, but Jack isn't listening anymore, because Emma has just stepped shyly through the curtain. His sister is scrubbed pink and clean, wrapped in a matching robe. Her mouth falls open in an 'o' of shock when she sees him. "Jack?" she whispers, as if she hardly recognizes him.

The sparkling stylist's smile dies an abrupt death at the look on Jack's face. "Now, don't get excited," she says, reaching up to pat his shoulder. Her fingernails are lacquered in the same glistening green as her dress. "I know it's a little extreme, but it's all the rage in the Capitol these days, and I thought it would look _very_ fierce -"

"What," Jack demands, "did you _do_ to us?"


	9. The Chariots

.

**THE CHARIOTS**

* * *

Hiccup has been mucking out stables since he was big enough to hold a pitchfork, not that it helped his muscles much. His prep team spent his entire hideously embarrassing makeover making faces at each other when they thought he wasn't looking; Hiccup knows they were probably just disappointed to be assigned to such a scrawny nobody, but he wouldn't be surprised if they could smell manure on him. It's not like he was happy to be there, either. Even shoveling manure sounds delightful compared to listening to twittering Capitol gossip for that long.

(At least that's finished for now, and he's dressed again, which is pretty great, comparatively speaking. Not being naked! Hooray! The luxuries of the Capitol are amazing him already.)

Hiccup stands awkwardly by the District 10 chariot, watching the attendants hitching up team after team of ridiculously beautiful horses. His fingers itch to stroke their velvety noses. Maybe he could talk quietly to them, make one last connection with something alive and friendly.

Maybe he could get his skull kicked in before he ever sets foot in the Arena.

Hiccup isn't in a huge hurry to die his inevitable gruesome death. But he does have a way with horses. Even Astrid would admit that. His partner is already in the chariot, gripping the rail a little too tightly. Her knuckles are showing white, but otherwise she seems grimly composed and calm.

If only he had a tenth of her confidence. Hiccup feels ridiculous in his parade costume, which tackles the "livestock" theme by being all leather and fur with an enormous horned helmet. It's probably supposed to make him look barbaric and dangerous, but the effect in his opinion is just top-heavy and pathetic. He feels like an underfed steer being taken to slaughter.

Astrid, of course, looks magnificent. Her golden hair is braided down her back, crowned with a helmet like his, but somehow the powerful horns don't look out of place on her. She wears her leather and furs like a barbarian queen about to ride off to war, standing proud and strong and beautiful in the chariot. Hiccup can already imagine the comparisons she'll draw to last year's victor. At this rate, District Ten is going to get a reputation for producing tough, dangerous blondes.

At least she'll draw the crowd's attention off Hiccup.

The other tributes are arriving and climbing into their own chariots, now. Hiccup reluctantly gives up on the horses and takes a look at his fellow tributes. He's not the worst-dressed, at least. The giant headlamps on the District Twelve tributes make Hiccup's helmet look subdued and tasteful, and the brother and sister from District Five are peering out of silvery glass bubbles that are probably meant to evoke lightbulbs, but remind Hiccup more of ancient pictures of space travelers from before the war. They're still better off than the Career tributes from Four, draped in glittering nets; they look about one stiff breeze away from completely losing their dignity.

As Hiccup steps up into his chariot, a bright flash of color catches his eye. The chariot in front of theirs is from District Nine, and the boy tribute looks barely old enough to be here, poor kid; but it's the girl's costume that makes Hiccup's jaw drop. Her abundant yellow hair has been braided and woven, just like a straw basket, into the shape of a gleaming cornucopia. It curves up and over her head, spilling over with a cascade of artificial flowers and golden grain.

She's managing to smile and hold her chin high, but her jaw is clenched, and the tension in her slim neck and shoulders is visible from yards away. There's got to be some kind of support frame inside all that braided hair, not to mention the wads of stuff they've shoved into it; the whole design must weigh a ton.

"Wishful thinking," Astrid says, grimly. Startled, Hiccup glances at his district partner. She's watching the District Nine girl, too.

"It's not like she'll get anywhere near the Cornucopia," she says, with a roll of her eyes. "They're just making her look even smaller and weaker than she is." Hiccup stares at his partner, and Astrid actually colors slightly under his reproachful gaze and looks away. "What?" she mutters. "She can barely stand up in that thing."

Is that pity in Astrid's voice? Sympathy? Or is Hiccup just thinking wishfully, too? The great doors swing open, and the roar of the crowd outside washes over them like a storm, deafening and clamorous and wild, drowning out his chance to reply. Hiccup grips the chariot rail, squares his shoulders, and manages not to wince at the sudden blare of the national anthem as the first chariot rolls out into the crowded streets.

It'll be over soon enough.


	10. The Parade

**THE PARADE**

* * *

If there's anything better for a guy's confidence than being dressed in golden armor and paraded through a cheering crowd, Flynn can't think of it right now.

Sure, there are a few flies in the soup, metaphorically speaking. It's not how Flynn would have chosen to enter Capitol society, riding in a tribute chariot. Obviously, given his druthers, he would trade places with any of the Capitol citizens crowding along the sidewalks; safe and anonymous, and filthy rich to boot. Ah, to live out a life of quiet luxury in a modest penthouse. He wouldn't go for anything extravagant, of course. No unsettling tattoos or crazy-striped dinner jackets or solid-gold dishes, and only a small collection of expensive clothes and jewelry. Everything in the best of taste. It's a nice dream; on the off chance that he wins these Games, it could even come true.

Still, compared to scraping a living in the gray streets of District One, this is one hell of a way to spend an evening.

Their chariot is gloriously golden, burnished as brightly as their armor, and drawn by a matched pair of high-stepping horses as white as snow. Flynn actually tried to pat one of them, while they were waiting to begin the parade, and had to snatch his hand back in a hurry when the stallion darted its head out to snap at his fingers. Point taken. Who knew a big dumb animal would be so testy?

At least nobody but his district partner was witness to that moment of indignity; and the two of them are literally radiating dignity and beauty now, as their chariot rumbles along the streets of the Capitol. Their skin and hair has been dusted with gilt powder until they shine like a pair of metallic statues, and they've been crowned with real gold and diamonds. Flynn sneaks a glance at his partner; she's waving solemnly to the crowd, and her golden skin reflects the bright lights all around them in glimmers of rainbow color that slide softly across her bare arms and upturned face. Does he look that impressive and powerful, too?

"Flynn! Flynn Rider!"

Startled, Flynn looks up. High above on the balcony of an apartment, a group of girls with clouds of fashionable pastel curls are calling down to him. Their arms are full of flowers; one of them tosses an orange lily down to him. Flynn reaches up and catches it automatically, then - on a whim - winks up at her and plants a kiss on the brightly-colored petals.

The balcony girls let out a chorus of delighted shrieks. The next thing Flynn knows, he's being showered with flowers and shouted well-wishes and good-lucks and think-of-mes. The citizens in the stands near the street pick up on their excitement, and start a chant of his name. Flynn flexes a gilded bicep for them and grins, posturing shamelessly; the Capitol crowds respond with a roar of cheers and applause. Flowers and confetti patter around his sandalled feet.

Grinning from ear to ear, he nudges his district partner. "How about that, huh?" he smirks. "You know, I could get used to this."

"Don't," she advises him, flatly. The fixed smile on her lips doesn't falter, and she's waving to the crowd just as doggedly as he is, but there's no joy in her expression.

"Why not? This is a blast! Aren't you having fun?" Flushed with attention and applause, Flynn twists around and waves an arm jauntily back at the chariot from District Two, their future allies according to tradition. The girl is too busy blowing kisses to the crowd to notice him, but the male tribute spots him all right. His thick gingery brows snap together in a frown - almost a _glare_. And then he pointedly turns his face away, and ignores Flynn.

"We're not here to have fun," his partner says softly, distracting Flynn from his startled confusion. She's looking at him over one glimmering shoulder, and her large brown eyes are serious. "You _know_ what we're here for, Flynn."

The cheering of the crowd suddenly sounds hollow and distant. Flynn swallows, and nods. "Yeah," he admits. "I know."

But it was nice, just for a little while, to forget.


	11. The Training Center

.

**THE TRAINING CENTER**

* * *

Shadows fill the unfamiliar bedroom. Sprawled on his back, Jack stares grimly at the ceiling. The faint artificial ticking of a clock marks off the endless seconds until dawn. He knows it isn't a real clock. He checked it, turned over the silver box and discovered the little speaker on the bottom, running an endless sound-loop recorded from some faraway honest machine.

Nothing is real, here.

A faint whimper catches Jack's ear. Well. At least there's one real thing left in his life.

"Emma," he whispers, and sits up cautiously to peer at her face through the shadows, careful not to wake her.

His sister's room, one door down, is as echoingly large and impersonal as his own. He wasn't all that surprised when she appeared in his doorway, not long after lights out, even though it's been years since they used to pile into bed with their mother; and he sure as hell wasn't sending her back to sleep alone. This bed would comfortably fit a dozen Emmas with plenty of room left over for one measly brother.

Curled into a ball under the covers, Emma's small body looks lost among the yards of sheets and blankets. Her sleeping face is screwed up into a fretful expression, one fist pressed against her mouth. As Jack watches, she shivers in her sleep and lets out another tiny, frightened sound.

Jack sighs, unsure what to do. She needs her sleep for the days ahead, but how are nightmares supposed to help her rest? Frustrated with his own helplessness, he scowls, and reaches out to gently brush the pale, sweat-damp hair from her forehead. She looks like a ghost, after what that stylist did to their hair.

A light tap on the door rings out in the silence like a shot. Jack startles, twisting around to face the door as it swings open. A long shadow stretches across the rectangle of light from outside...

It's the same Avox who served their dinner, after the parade tonight. Jack relaxes. He's heard rumors about how people become Avox in the Capitol, but he can't imagine this man as a rebel insurgent or a dangerous malcontent. The guy looks about as threatening as a teddy bear, hardly taller than Emma, with a plump face framed with tufts of sandy hair. At the moment, he's carrying a glass of water on a tray.

Belatedly, Jack realizes he's waiting for permission. "C'mon in," he whispers.

The Avox nods and slips into the room, leaving the door open behind him. He sets the tray with its brimming glass on Emma's nightstand, then turns to Jack and presses one finger to his lips in the universal shushing gesture. There's worried urgency in his soft brown eyes.

"Not a word," Jack translates, and glances at the open doorway. "Got it."

Without taking his finger from his lips, the Avox's other hand dips into the pocket of his robes, and comes out holding a small paper packet. He hands it to Jack, who opens it curiously. There are half a dozen yellow tablets inside. Jack stares at them, then at his sister, then looks back at their silent servant.

"Will these help her sleep?" he whispers. "Peacefully?" The Avox smiles, and nods. Gratitude washes through Jack like a breeze; he gives the Avox a tired smile. "Thanks. This is..." He swallows. "Thank you."

The little man pats Jack's arm, and his whole face crinkles up in a gentle smile. Then he releases him, and slips soundlessly out the door again.

Jack watches him go, more curious than ever now. Maybe the Capitol wasn't completely wrong when they decided this guy was a danger to them. He shakes his head wryly, and leans over to wake his sister.


	12. Training, Day 1

.

**TRAINING, DAY 1**

* * *

Walking into the training hall felt strangely like coming home again. After all, Flynn was raised half his life in a hall not unlike this one. The high ceiling echoes with the clatter of practice weapons clashing harmlessly together, and the noise forms a familiar rhythm, rising and falling like the wind on a stormy night. Now and then, a startled yelp breaks the pattern of sound, as some hapless tribute catches a blow from a padded staff or an edgeless sword. Other tributes work quietly at the non-combat stations, practicing their camoflage or woodcraft.

There's something almost homey about it all. Resting from his last bout, Flynn leans against the cool metal wall and watches the other tributes at their stations.

Most of the non-Careers aren't coming off very well; if they have any talent with a weapon, they're doing a stellar job of hiding it. Here and there, though, a few stars do shine. A burly kid from District Twelve is whaling hell out of a training dummy, and the statuesque blonde from District Ten is amusing herself by spinning knives into a terrifying blur and flinging them into a target with an accuracy that sends shivers down Flynn's spine. Between her and the Victor from last year, he's starting to wonder if the girls from Ten do their work details in the slaughterhouses.

Suddenly, a peal of laughter rings out.

It's so out of place here that it grabs Flynn's attention instantly. The boy with the bleached hair from District Five is at the staff fighting station, facing off against the trainer. The old guy looks grizzled and rough for the Capitol, gray-haired and inked across the face and shoulders with stark tattoos; a former Peacekeeper, maybe? Flynn would hesitate before calling him out, but the white-haired kid is surprisingly fast on his feet. He's darting almost playfully in and out of the bigger man's reach, raining nimble blows on any body part left unguarded for even a second.

"Try to keep up, old man!" the boy calls, still laughing. The trainer's bushy eyebrows lock together in a frown.

"Sodding show pony," he mutters, not quite under his breath. The insult just draws another wild grin from the District Five kid; he lunges in and locks weapons with his opponent, then deftly twists his staff around to smack the guy's shin and skips back out of reach as the trainer swears fluently. Flynn raises an eyebrow, impressed. The guy's got guts, all right.

The swordwork instructor, a tall, dark streak of a man, is leaning against the wall nearby. He raises an eyebrow at Flynn's expression. Flynn winces, caught out, and coughs into his fist - it's good to keep an eye on the other tributes' strengths, if only to guard his own back, but the last thing he needs right now is to start actually _liking_ anybody. He's not here to make friends; not if he wants to win.

"Sooo," he says, with the blinding smile that made the masses scream adoration at the parade. "What do you think? Threat?" He jerks one shoulder in the direction of the staff fight.

The instructor's thin lips curl in distaste. So much for Capitol adoration. He glances where Flynn indicated, but snorts dismissively when he sees the kid. "Perhaps, if he was alone," he says, layering the words in scorn. "That's Forrester, isn't it? Our noble _volunteer_. That baby sister of his will drag him down like a lead weight."

That's right - Flynn remembers now, from the highlight reel of the Reaping he watched on the train. The tiny girl with the big brown eyes. Something about her reminded Flynn uncomfortably of the youngest kids in the factory, who used to beg him for stories back in the dormitory at night.

"Take it from me, boy," the sword instructor says, offering Flynn a practice blade. "Allies are never worth it. The useful ones kill you, and the useless ones get you killed."

Flynn mulls that over, as they stride back out onto the mats and take their fighting stances. The advice isn't anything he wasn't already thinking, but it's strange to hear it stated so plainly. How many kids has this guy instructed, as they passed through these halls on their way to the arena? Doesn't he care anymore? The idea of that little girl skewered on his blade, staring up at him with those frightened brown eyes, ties Flynn's stomach in a queasy knot. But that's the game here, isn't it? No mercy.

He shudders, eager for a distraction, and lunges into the fray again.


	13. Training, Day 2

.

**TRAINING, DAY 2**

* * *

It isn't that she's getting tired of foraging lessons, or tying knots, or helping her little partner learn to light a campfire. Rapunzel always enjoyed growing and gathering herbs at home - for spices or medicine or pigments - and it's fascinating to learn about plants from beyond the borders of District Nine. But she _is_ supposed to have a useful skill to show the Gamemakers, and Maia will be happier if her score isn't completely dismal.

Rapunzel has already disappointed her so many times.

So, on her second day in the training hall, she wanders in the direction of the combat and physical-training stations and has a curious look around. The Careers are dominating the weapons stations, and Rapunzel knows she won't impress anyone with a sword in her hand.

Instead, she finds herself among the gymnastics mats, surrounded by high bars and balance beams. Some of the tributes here are having trouble, struggling to swing from one ring to the next or wobbling wildly on the high bar with their arms thrown out to each side. She can see the Gamemakers in their elevated stands, but none of them are paying attention to the little girl from the Grain district.

If nothing else, this should be fun. And best of all, most of the tributes practicing here are barefoot. Rapunzel kicks off her shoes with considerable relief, and sits down on a mat to stretch.

There's a climbing wall at the back of the gymnastics area - a _real_ climbing wall, the sort that Capitol athletes use - and Rapunzel makes a beeline for it once she's warmed up. She's always loved climbing, but aside from a few trees and the grain silos at home, there was never much to climb _on_.

The resin handholds and toeholds are rough to the touch, but pleasantly secure. Rapunzel digs in her bare toes and climbs with relish, hand over hand, enjoying the way her muscles strain as she pulls herself steadily higher. It's a little disappointing when she finally reaches the top; she sighs, and hauls herself up and over the edge, onto the top of the wall.

To her surprise, she's not alone up here. There's another girl, about her own age, sitting with her knees drawn up and her arms wrapped around them. She has the most amazing tumble of gingery curls that Rapunzel has ever seen, and her blue eyes are wide; she seems just as surprised as Rapunzel to have company.

"Oh!" Rapunzel exclaims. "Sorry! I didn't realize anyone else was up here." She tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, and gives the girl a friendly smile. "You must like to climb, too. What district are you from?"

The girl looks perplexed, but after a pause, she replies, "Seven."

"Well, that explains it," Rapunzel says. "You must have miles of trees, right?" She mirrors the girl's posture, knees drawn close; it's a comfortable position from which to survey the hall around them. They're almost on a level with the Gamemakers, up here. She can see the brilliant red cherry in one woman's cocktail glass.

"Aye," the girl agrees. They sit in silence for a few minutes, watching the activity below, and then she ventures, "And where do ye call home?" She's got an interesting accent, sort of musical.

"I'm from District Nine," Rapunzel says.

"Ah." The girl hesitates, then smiles wryly at her. "I expect ye've got miles o' wheat?"

It surprises a laugh out of Rapunzel; a few of the Gamemakers glance over with suspicious looks on their faces. Maia would tell her not to act like a silly girl in front of the people who will be evaluating her tomorrow, but Rapunzel is too pleased to care. "Oh, definitely," she agrees, cheerfully. "Miles and miles of it. Plus barley, and rice, and every kind of grain you could imagine. If you climb to the top of the silos, the fields look like a quilt spreading right out to the horizon."

"It sounds fair lovely," the girl says, with a little sigh. The Gamemakers are certainly paying attention to them now. One of them is talking urgently into a device on his wrist. The girl glances up at the ceiling, and Rapunzel follows her gaze up to a slatted air vent in the roof. It's hardly six feet above them.

"Think they'd catch us if we climbed right out o' here?" the girl says. There's a twinkle of mischief in her eyes.

Rapunzel wrinkles her nose. "In about ten seconds," she says, and they both laugh. It's not really funny, but the laughter is a blessed release for some of the tension of the last few days, and Rapunzel is grateful for it.

"You two!" A trainer on the ground is waving up at them. "Get down from there!"

"Ach, bet ye they'll move it now," the girl mutters, with an exasperated laugh. She stands and peers over the edge at him, then looks back up at the grating in the ceiling. Then, quite deliberately, she reaches up and slaps it. The metallic clang echoes around the training hall.

"Hey! Stop that!" The trainer is waving both arms, now, looking as distressed as if they were trying to set the entire Training Center on fire. The girls catch each other's eyes, and burst out laughing.

They'll probably pay for this on their evaluation scores, Rapunzel thinks, as they climb back down under the Gamemakers' disapproving eyes. But there's something profoundly satisfying about tweaking the Capitol's nose, even just a little.

_Especially_ when she's not alone.


	14. Training, Day 3

.

**TRAINING, DAY 3**

* * *

****The cafeteria is becoming steadily quieter, as the tributes are taken away one by one for their evaluations. Merida sits at a table in the corner and toys with her lunch. Her partner has wandered off to talk to the burly boy from District Twelve, but it's really just as well; Duncan can look after himself, and he knows her just well enough that he might see through her stubbornly calm expression.

Merida is determined not to show even the smallest sign of the way her stomach is churning; but if she eats another bite of anything, she's convinced she'll make her impression on the Gamemakers by throwing up all over the training hall floor.

"Jack, it's gonna _fall!"_

"Shh!" There's a burst of smothered giggles. Startled out of her cloud of nervous anticipation, Merida glances toward the other end of the table.

It's the kids from District Five; she heard their names during the parade. Jack, obviously, and...Ella? No, Emma, she remembers. They had brown hair in the reaping recaps, but their stylist has transformed them into a pair of eerie snow sprites. Even in their plain training uniforms, they look otherworldly.

The bread basket at their end of the table has been emptied, and its contents are piled up into an elaborate tower on the tabletop. "We're wasting _food_," the girl - Emma - whispers, trying to scold, but still suppressing giggles.

"Who cares?" Her brother is carefully balancing a roll on top of the teetering tower of bread. "This is _fun._ Anyway, they've got more food here than they know what to do with. _There_ we go!" The roll is securely in place at last; they both pause to admire their work-in-progress. "See? I told you it was fine. Hand me another one, okay?"

"There aren't any more," Emma says. "You used them all." She sounds disappointed, but they're still grinning at each other. They have the same slightly crooked smile.

Not so otherworldly, after all.

Merida bites her lip, thinking. Then she picks up the brimming bread basket by her plate and slides it down the table toward them. "Here," she calls; they look up, startled, and the boy - Jack - reaches out just in time to catch the basket and save the the entire tower from being knocked down.

He narrows his eyes at her; for a split second, his playful mask fades and Merida glimpses something cold and brittle underneath. Mistrust? Hostility? Whatever it is, it only flickers across his face, and then he's all fun and games again.

"Hey, thanks," he says, and adds mock-solemnly. "You know, I think we've got a shot at breaking the all-time record with extra resources like this."

"Your brother's a bit mad, isn't he?" Merida smiles at the girl, who smiles back and ducks her head shyly. Her brother huffs, and gives Merida a look of comical offense.

"Well, excuse _you_," he says. "For your information, tower building is a Forrester family tradition. We don't normally use bread, I'll admit..."

Merida snickers. "Forrester, nothin'," she says. "With hair like that, they should be callin' you Jack Frost."

He grabs a snowy lock and pulls it down to peer at it crosseyed; his sister giggles again at the expression of mock surprise on his face. "You know, you've got a point," he says, and grins wickedly at Merida. "So, what do they call you? Firelocks McCurlywig?"

"_My_ hair is _natural,_ thank ye very much," Merida scoffs, but she's laughing now in spite of herself. He's funny, damn him. She hasn't really laughed like this since before the reaping...

"Jack Forrester."

Silence falls in the cafeteria. A white-uniformed Peacekeeper is waiting in the doorway. Jack shifts slightly on the bench, as if he'd like to hide Emma from the man with his own body, and Merida sees that same cold, frightened look flicker across his face again. She recognizes it now. It's desperation. Not to survive or to escape, she'd wager; but to protect the little girl he's been so carefully distracting from her own terror, with jokes and laughter and silly banter.

Reluctantly, Jack pushes back the bench and stands. Emma catches at the hem of his shirt, and he stops. Her eyes are full of fear; his hands are clenched into fists. Have they been apart since they were reaped?

It occurs to Merida that this girl is hardly older than her little brothers.

She takes a deep breath. "Emma?" she says, as gently as she can. "Why don't ye sit here wi' me, till it's your turn to go in? I'd be right grateful for the company."

Both siblings turn to stare at her. Emma simply looks surprised, but her brother is frowning suspiciously. "You - " he starts to say, but Merida cuts him off.

"My name is Merida DunBroch," she says, proudly lifting her chin. "If ye need an ally in the arena, look to me."

The Peacekeeper clears his throat. "Jack Forrester," he repeats, louder this time.

Emma reaches out and takes Merida's hand; her small fingers are warm. "Go," she tells Jack. "I'll be okay."

They will drag him bodily out of the cafeteria if he tries to stay, kicking and fighting if necessary, and all three of them know it. "If you say so," he says, casting a dubious look at Merida. "I'll meet you back in our rooms, okay? Good luck." And then he's walking over to the doorway, where the Peacekeeper takes him firmly by the arm and escorts him away.

They stand and watch him go; Emma clutches Merida's hand tightly, but doesn't say a word.

Elinor DunBroch always did scold her daughter for being too impulsive, too inclined to make rash and headstrong decisions on a whim. But Merida figures that she would approve of this impulse.


	15. The Scores

.

**THE SCORES**

* * *

Whatever else he could say about the Capitol - and he could say a lot - Hiccup has to admit that they know how to make a comfortable sofa. The scoring is going on the air any minute now, and the sitting room on the tenth floor is laid with an after-dinner spread of fresh fruit and drinks. Astrid has claimed one end of the sofa and is blowing on a hot cup of tea. She's got a plush blanket tucked snugly around her legs. Their mentor has sprawled his considerable bulk in the middle with a contented sigh, and Hiccup is occupying what little space is left and picking through a bowl of grapes.

If the circumstances were different, the tableau they make together would almost seem homey.

"Now, listen here," Gobber says, and steals a grape out of Hiccup's bowl. Smacking his lips with relish, he continues over Hiccup's protests, "Yer score isn't the be-all and end-all of yer sponsorship chances - par-_tic_-ularly for you two - though it wouldna hurt to make a decent showing. Either way, what ye want to do now is size up the competition, so pay attention."

He spits the empty grape skin into his good hand - the other is a hook, from his time in the arena - and tosses it onto the coffee table. "Oh, ew," Hiccup winces. "What, are you - are you _trying_ to gross me out, so I'll give you the rest of these? Is that the plan here? Because - "

"Focus, Hiccup," Gobber grumbles, with a roll of his eyes.

It's slightly bizarre to hear that familiar grumble, even here in the Capitol. Gobber has been friends with Hiccup's father since they were boys; his talent is smithing, and he apprenticed Hiccup by way of convincing Stoick that his son wasn't entirely useless, back before his skill with animals came to light. Hiccup never developed the rippling muscular bulk that Gobber carries, but they get along well enough all the same. He could do a lot worse for a mentor.

"It's starting." Astrid is sitting up straight, now, with her fingers curled tightly around her mug.

They watch the first few scores together in silence. Gobber snorts at the high numbers for the Career tributes. None of them score less than eight. "Showoffs," he mutters, though his bushy eyebrows rise slightly when the boy from Five gets a respectable nine. His sister receives a five; not bad for her age and size, but not very encouraging, either.

Most of the scores fall in the usual depressing range after that. There are a few standouts; both tributes from District Seven pull a ten, which makes Gobber let out a low whistle. "Poor devils. They'll have to watch themselves," is all he says when Hiccup looks at him.

And then, before he knows it, Hiccup is staring down his own image. He swallows his mouthful of fruit with an audible gulp. Rigging a trap out of rope and weights seemed like his best chance at the time, and it knocked the training dummy halfway across the room when he set it off, but the rigging process took forever. Was it enough?

His number flashes across the screen. Seven.

"Ha!" Gobber shouts, and pounds Hiccup on the back so hard that he chokes. "Ye had it in ye after all, lad!"

Hiccup coughs and sputters. "It's-it's not _that_ good," he protests, "I mean, a seven is...I think the best you can really call that is 'not terrible', it's not exactly a ringing endorsement..."

"Ach, we'll work with what we've got," Gobber laughs. "It's a fair shot better than nothin', and no mistake! Ye've a shot at sponsorship outside the district with a score like - "

"Eleven," Astrid says.

"Eh?" Gobber blinks, thrown off his train of thought. Astrid is staring at the screen in dawning delight.

"Eleven," she repeats, and gestures at the screen. It's displaying the face of the boy from District Twelve; the broadcast has already moved on. "My score. They gave me an _eleven!"_

"Oh!" There's an awkward pause. Gobber looks nonplussed for a moment, then musters up a broad grin. "_That_ score! Well done, lass! That's...that's fine news." He reaches over to pat her on the back as well, but Astrid has gone rigid and pale. The fingers of her free hand are clenched in her blankets.

"You weren't even watching," she says, stiffly. "Were you."

Hiccup and Gobber exchange a guilty look. With a strangled growl of frustration, Astrid slams her drink down on the table. She kicks off her blanket and stalks out of the room, leaving the plush fabric in a heap on the floor.

The door slams behind her.


	16. Coaching

.

**COACHING**

* * *

"Child, you simply _must_ stand straighter than that!"

Cool fingers close over Rapunzel's shoulders, and her mentor's thumbs press into her back, firmly adjusting her posture. Rapunzel can feel the sharp edges of her nails aganist her skin. Her mentor has been nothing but bright and encouraging, but something about her still makes Rapunzel's stomach turn over nervously, despite the woman's frothy Capitol hairstyle and elegant gowns. Rapunzel has seen her attending the reaping every year since she was a little girl, in her capacity as past Victor, but somehow Maia never seems to look any older. Maybe she got the name of Caesar Flickerman's plastic surgeon while they were setting up for her victory interview?

Biting her lip, Rapunzel pushes her shoulders back and tries to arch her neck gracefully, the way Maia does. She will _not_ wobble on her high heels. She will _not._

Her mentor _tsk_s, pacing around Rapunzel with her dark curls floating after her like a thundercloud. She looks her up and down with a critical frown creasing the smooth skin between her brows. Then - just when Rapunzel is on the verge of desperately asking her what more she needs to do - Maia relaxes and smiles.

"Much better. You look lovely, dear. That _hair!_" She reaches out one long-nailed hand to run her fingers through Rapunzel's thick tresses, and affects a sigh of delight. "They've done _wonders_ with those nasty tangles. You'll be a regular angel of death in the Arena."

Rapunzel does not close her eyes or flinch, but she can't help remembering the whispers she heard sometimes at the reapings, about how those fingers clenched around a long knife won Maia's game for her, one tribute at a time in the dark of the night.

It isn't her _fault_, Rapunzel reminds herself. They threw her into the arena, and she only did what every victor does. Rapunzel is the strange one here, not Maia.

Her mentor is still combing her fingers gently through her loose hair. "Nobody _really_ worries about a middling training score, you know," she purrs. "We shouldn't have any trouble finding you sponsors...provided of course you do well in your interviews, which shouldn't be too difficult, even for a skinny little thing from the middle of nowhere!" She lets out a trill of laughter at the look on Rapunzel's face. "Darling, I'm joking! You'll be delightful. Caesar can make anyone look erudite, bless his heart. We just need to find you an angle, something that covers up the rough spots and makes your talents shine."

Rapunzel swallows hard. Maia _is_ her mentor, after all. Surely she's trying to be kind? "I'll do my best," she promises, and she means the interview, so this time it isn't a lie.


	17. The Elevator

.

**THE ELEVATOR**

* * *

The way Ana's eyes lit up with inspiration over dinner last night, when Emma mentioned the District Seven girl's joke about Jack's name, was pretty unsettling...but the final effect isn't half bad, all things considered.

As it turns out, prep gets easier the second time around. Jack supposes they did most of the hard stuff the first time, the buffing and plucking and bleaching and all that. Sitting perfectly still for an hour while Ana's "girls" painstakingly stenciled frost patterns on his skin was a cakewalk in comparison. His suit isn't terrible, either, as far as Capitol fashion goes. Personally, he wouldn't have picked shimmery blue fabric for a formal jacket, and the pants seem uncomfortably tight, but what does he know about clothes?

"Jack, look!"

There's real delight in Emma's voice. Jack turns and takes one look at her, and stops breathing. Ana has turned his sister into a glimmering winter fairy, all soft blue ribbons and silver snowflakes caught in her hair. Emma is glowing with happiness, twirling around to show off the way the floating fabric of her skirt catches the light.

She looks so delicate that a puff of air could shatter her into a thousand pieces.

Jack's stomach turns over. They already agreed on this strategy; no one is going to bet on Emma being a serious physical threat, but if they play their cards right, the bleeding-heart sponsors of the Capitol will fight to empty their wallets for the brave, charming boy and his tragic little sister. It's their best shot, but it still chills him to the core to see her looking so...fragile.

Emma's spinning feet slow, then stop. "You...you don't like it?" she says, and her disappointment jolts him back to life.

"Are you kidding?" Jack says, grinning. "You look amazing! They're gonna _love_ you. Do the spinny thing again!"

The happy light rekindles in her eyes, and she holds out a hand for him to turn her; on an impulse, Jack picks her up as if she was still five years old and whirls her around like a turbine propeller, an old childhood game, until Emma shrieks with laughter and he's so dizzy he can hardly stay standing.

The elevator doors slide open with a soft chime. Still laughing, they stagger inside, slightly off-balance.

There are only three other tributes in this car, two boys and a girl, but Emma lets out a gasp of amazement when she sees the girl's hair. It cascades in a golden waterfall all the way to the hem of her tightly-laced pink silk gown, and her prep team has braided it full of a garden's worth of flowers.

"Wow," Emma whispers. The girl blushes.

"It's mostly extensions," she whispers back, with a rueful little smile. "I'm terrified I'm going to catch it on something and rip the whole thing out. Yours is much prettier."

Emma beams. Jack sizes the girl up, suspiciously; she doesn't look much bigger than Emma, but she's carrying the weight of all that hair without too much trouble, even on heels. It's not unheard of for smaller tributes to play it weak and gentle until they're in the arena, then reveal a frightening amount of strength when the countdown hits zero.

"You're awfully humble," he observes, with a skeptical smirk. "What, is that your angle? You're going to have a tough time selling it with that fancy hair."

She shakes her head, and a flower petal flutters to the floor. "I don't have an angle," she says. "Well, I mean, we talked about one, but..." She takes a deep breath. "I'm tired of lying. Just this once, I want to tell _somebody_ the truth."

Before Jack can ask what that's supposed to mean, the elevator doors hiss open, and the light and bustle of the soundstage spills inside. The girl hikes her cascade of hair up over one arm and walks out the door with the slightly unsteady gait of a newcomer to heels. "Good luck," she calls over her shoulder. Jack straightens his collar, and tries for a smile.

It's showtime.


	18. The Interviews

.

**THE INTERVIEWS**

* * *

The crowd applauds - no, more than applauds. It bellows its approval like a wild animal; it crashes like the waves of the sea. Astrid takes her seat again with a tight, small smile on her face, and smooths her skirts. She's resplendent in pale blue satin, and Hiccup can imagine the rush to the bookkeepers that's probably happening right now.

The Thorston girl was wild and aggressive, but Astrid is like folded steel, confident and focused and beautiful and lethal. There have been some good interviews tonight - the tall boy from District One charmed the pants off the audience - and some frightening tributes, especially among the Careers - and even a genuine shocker from the District Nine girl with the braided hair. But Astrid shines above them all, as unmistakably as the North Star. She's everything they want in a tribute. Nobody could follow her.

"Hiccup?" She nudges his ankle with her foot, none too gently. "You're up."

Oh, god. Right.

Hiccup gulps and lurches to his feet, already aware of the eyes of the crowd as they turn away from his district partner and fasten on him. His tailored suit felt like armor when he put it on this afternoon, but now he just feels ridiculous. Who wears a bright green suit, outside the Capitol? Somehow he manages to walk across the stage and sit down again without falling flat on his face. Caesar gives him an oddly sympathetic smile.

And then the last of the applause dies away, and all that's left is the shivering, anticipatory silence into which Hiccup is supposed to put words. Words to inspire faith, or greed, or pity; words to save his own life.

"So, Hubert." Caesar launches the interview in his usual friendly, breezy tone. "What do you do, back at home?"

"Hiccup," Hiccup says, automatically.

Caesar hesitates, thrown off his game - a rare achievement. "I'm sorry?" he says, eyebrows raised. "You...hiccup?" A ripple of laughter rises from the audience.

Hiccup grimaces. "No, I mean - uh, they call me Hiccup. At home. I, uh..."

"Oh!" Caesar swings back into gear, bright white teeth bared in a smile. "Well! I've heard some pretty unusual names from the districts, but I think this one takes the prize! Let's hear it for Hiccup Haddock, everybody!"

The audience applauds politely, but Hiccup's heart is sinking. He's already off on the wrong foot, and his chance to make a good impression is draining away. Argh, who is he kidding? He can't even get the folks at home to listen to him!

"Horses!" he blurts, desperate to squeeze in at least a little of the strategy Gobber suggested. Caesar blinks, puzzled but curious. "I, uh...I train horses. At home. I used to help with the cows and sheep, too, when I was little, but it turns out I'm pretty good at saddle training, so..."

Caesar deftly picks up the thread. "Saddle training! Ladies and gents, we've got a real wild horse tamer in the house tonight!" He smiles at Hiccup, which would be a lot more reassuring without those blinding teeth of his. "I have to admit, I never would have guessed! How do you handle those crazy beasts, Hiccup?"

Hiccup's stomach unknots itself a little - they're back on track, now. He grins at the audience, like they practiced, and pretends to flex a bicep. "Oh, you know...you just have to show 'em who's boss, right? Give 'em the old Haddock one-two!"

There's another wave of chuckles, but they're not really buying it. Hiccup sighs. How would he explain it to his dad, if he was being honest?

"But...seriously," he says, slowly, thinking out loud. "It's more about...spending time with them, and learning everything about them. If you can figure out what makes them tick, you can tame almost anything. You just have to meet them on their own terms."

Silence. Hiccup looks up, and sees the audience looking back at him with rapt attention.

For just that moment, they're really listening.

And then Caesar laughs, and steps in with a joke about whether Hiccup could train his sister's unruly pet dog - now _there's_ a wild animal, folks! - and it's all jokes and banter about unexpected talents and not judging a book by its cover. He even asks if Hiccup thinks he could use those skills of his to analyze his opponents in the arena, which actually hadn't occurred to him until now. It's not a bad idea.

Still, it's a relief when Caesar finally shakes his hand and sends him back to his seat, and the girl from District Eleven can take her turn.

It wasn't a great interview, Hiccup decides as he settles back into his chair. But it could have been a lot worse.


	19. After The Interviews

.

**AFTER THE INTERVIEWS**

* * *

When Rapunzel and her partner step out of the elevator, their rooms are dark. The sole source of light is the television screen, and the image playing across it is Rapunzel's face.

"...but I don't _want_ to kill anyone," comes her recorded voice, followed by a shy little laugh. "Actually, I promised myself I wouldn't. Not if I can help it."

Caesar's startled response cuts off as the clip starts over again. Slowly, Maia Gothel rises from her seat on the sofa. Her eyes gleam like a cat's in the reflected light from the screen.

Rapunzel realizes that her partner has already slipped out of the room.

"What," her mentor snaps, clipped and tense, "do you call _this?"_

She opens her mouth to explain, to confess the private vow she made to herself on the train when this all began, but before the words can emerge, Maia has crossed the room in three long strides and seized her by the shoulders. The shake she gives Rapunzel snaps her head back and knocks her teeth together with an audible clack.

"Are you _trying_ to ruin your chances?" Maia hisses. "Do you not _want_ any sponsors? Oh, _no_, you're _such_ a clever little miss! You don't need _anyone's_ help, not with running your mouth straight into an early grave!"

This close, the floral smell of Maia's perfume is overwhelming; her lacquered nails dig into Rapunzel's skin like claws. Rapunzel feels herself quivering on the verge of a sob of terror.

"...can help it," her own voice says softly from the television.

Maia releases her grip on her shoulders; the fury in her expression flickers, then vanishes as suddenly as a snuffed flame.

"Oh, you ridiculous child," she sighs, and stalks back to the sofa to collapse dramatically onto it, throwing one arm across her eyes. "I'm going to need a _week_ with my stylist when these Games are over, just to take care of the gray hairs you're giving me."

Left standing in the middle of the floor, Rapunzel hesitates, unsure of what to do. Her heart is still beating too fast. "I-I'm sorry?" she ventures.

Maia lifts her arm and peers under it at her. "I've been working myself half to death for you, you know," she says, and her tone is gently scolding now, almost affectionate. "Come here, child."

Reluctantly, Rapunzel goes to sit next to her. Her mentor sits up, and folds one of Rapunzel's hands in both of her large ones. Her fingers are cold; her voice is tender, encouraging. "Everyone in District Nine is cheering you on, Rapunzel. Do you really want to disappoint them all?" She pats her hand. "I know this is a little daunting - believe me, I know - but it's all _right_. Everyone expects...certain things...from a tribute."

Rapunzel swallows. "I...I don't think my mother and father-"

"Ha!" Maia's bark of laughter echoes off the walls like a gunshot. "Oh, _Rapunzel!_ Never mind your parents! You'll be lucky if you ever see them again."

Tears flood into Rapunzel's eyes and spill over without warning. Her throat is closing up too tightly to speak. Maia tsks, and shakes her head.

"There, there," she murmurs, gently patting Rapunzel's cheeks dry with the corner of her sleeve. "Don't cry, you'll spoil your looks. Dear heart, I am trying to _help_ you. I'm the best ally you have." A smile curls her painted mouth. "At this point, you might as well call_ me_ Mother."


	20. Supper

.

**SUPPER**

* * *

Merida is sixteen years old, thank you, and she can undress herself. She _needs _to, desperately, after days of plucking and primping and carefully wielded makeup wands blotting out every blemish that makes her recognizable and true. Her skin itches with the weight of cosmetics and lotions. Just once, she wants the satisfaction of scrubbing it all _off_ with her own two hands, and so she ignores her prep team's fluttering protests and tells them firmly _good-night_ as the elevator doors close behind her.

Alone at last. Her bedroom door hisses shut, and Merida takes a deep breath and throws her arms wide, as if she could embrace the silence that fills the room. The underarm seams of her tight silk dress give out with a glorious, satisfying _rip_. Merida grins, and reaches back to unzip the ruined gown.

Smooth fabric brushes her fingers. She frowns and reaches further, groping for a fastener that doesn't seem to exist. Realization dawns; the stylist she'd assumed was buttoning up endless tiny buttons was actually _sewing her_ into her dress. _Damn_ it. What are the odds of scissors in a tribute's apartment?

It takes ten minutes of furious swearing and ripping to free herself from the dress. At last, Merida steps out of the ragged puddle of blue silk, kicks it under the bed with a curse, and goes to work on her hair, wrestling out hairpin after hairpin. It's tempting to start counting them after a point. They make a little pile at first, but after the forty-oddth pin, she gives in to temptation and starts throwing them across the room.

By the time she's finished undressing, Merida is seething. She stalks into the shower and smacks her hand down on the controls, in the general direction of the hot-water button. Jets of lemon-smelling foam spurt out of the wall nozzles, slathering her from scalp to toes.

Her shriek of frustration is probably audible on the twelfth floor.

When she finally emerges, Merida's skin is pink with scrubbing and smells of half a dozen perfumes, but the dark smears of makeup under her eyes still linger stubbornly. Shivering, she wraps herself in a robe and listlessly drips a trail of water behind her to the common room.

Her district partner finds her there an hour later, sitting at the table with her face buried in her arms and a mug of forgotten tea at her elbow. He grimaces, then pulls out a chair and sits.

At the sound of the chair legs dragging on the floor, Merida sits up, pushing her tangled damp curls out of her face. Tears have streaked the traces of makeup in lines to her chin. Duncan winces visibly.

"What?" she demands.

He coughs. "Ye look a right mess, is what."

"I don't remember askin' for yer opinion, Duncan Macintosh," Merida grumbles. She dips a fingertip in her tea, and scowls. It's gone cold, and curdly as well.

Something slides across the table with a scrape. Merida looks up, startled. It's a bowl of steaming soup, with a spoon in it; there's an identical one in front of Duncan. He's already eating steadily.

"Thank ye," she says, uncertainly. Her stomach rumbles, reminding her that she hasn't eaten since breakfast; she doesn't need any further convincing. After a few bites, though, she pauses and sets down her spoon. "Ye've not had a lot to say to me since the Reapin', have ye? Why start now?"

"Easier not to." His long face is solemn, and his bushy brows are drawn together in a frown. He clears his throat, awkwardly. "Ye've been a right brave lass, DunBroch," he says, mostly into his soup bowl. "I'll steer clear of ye in the Arena, if ye'll do the same."

It's not quite an alliance, but it warms something inside Merida all the same, as surely as the hot soup. Somehow she feels clean again at last.

"Aye," she says, and smiles at him. "That sounds fair enough."


	21. The Last Night

.

**THE LAST NIGHT**

* * *

When Hiccup found a pad of paper in the drawer of his bedside table, writing a letter to his father seemed like the best possible use for the stuff. They never really figured out how to talk to each other; even their farewell was mostly just awkward silence. But Gobber could bring a letter home with him, and maybe it would be easier to get the words out on paper?

As it turns out, no. It isn't. Hiccup mutters a curse, crumples his effort into a ball and pitches it at the wastebasket.

It bounces off the rim and ends up on the floor. Yes, clearly Hiccup and his lightning hand-eye coordination are going to be the terror of the arena. He groans, and picks up his pencil again. A few words in, he gives up and starts trying to sketch the horses that drew their chariot from memory. Drawing at least feels natural, almost relaxing, and the Capitol has provided plenty of memorable models. The soaring facade of the Training Center. The faceted crystal bowl of fruit at breakfast today. Astrid in her training gear, standing proud with her shoulders thrown back, an axe in her hands and determination in her eyes.

He lingers over the last sketch, carefully shading in the curve of her cheek with soft strokes of his pencil. As he runs out of details to add, his drawing hand falters, then goes still...

The door to his room hisses open. Hiccup yelps, nearly leaping out of his chair, but it's only Gobber in the doorway. "Evenin', Hiccup," he says with a gap-toothed grin.

"Oh, please, don't bother knocking, just barge right in," Hiccup gripes, trying to get his breathing back to normal. "Shouldn't you be at Headquarters or something?"

Gobber's expression falters. He eases his weight onto Hiccup's bed, with a popping of weary joints; his mentor was all muscle when he won his Games, and he's only added bulk since then. The frame creaks dangerously, but it holds.

"Aye, well," Gobber says, scratching the back of his head. "About that. Lad, I'm right sorry, but..."

A lead weight settles into the pit of Hiccup's stomach. "You couldn't get any sponsors," he says, grimly confirming what his mentor is too kind to say outright. "Not for me, anyway."

Gobber winces. "Ye did yer best, Hiccup," he says. "In another year, ye might a' had a fine chance, but...ach, it's a promisin' crop o' tributes this year, and they're leavin' precious few scraps between 'em." He shakes his head. "Ye'll have plenty o' support from home, for what that's worth. I'll make it count, however I can. Ye'll just have to do the same."

There's nothing Hiccup can really say to that. Silence stretches between them, as they both contemplate what's coming.

Finally, Gobber heaves a great gusty sigh. He looks exhausted; there are deeply-etched lines on his face that Hiccup never really noticed before. "I should've prepared ye for this, somehow," Gobber says bleakly. "But I never thought it'd be _you_, lad. Your father - "

"Oh, Dad'll manage," Hiccup interrupts, trying for an airy tone - he can't talk about this, he _can't_. Not here, not now. "He always does."

"It breaks his heart," Gobber says, undaunted. He reaches out and rests his heavy hand on Hiccup's shoulder. His eyes under those bushy brows are dead serious, and Hiccup finds himself unable to look away. "Our lass Ruff made a fortune for quite a lot o' people, last year. That's not to yer advantage, however ye might think it would be. They always go after the tributes whose district won last. They'll be lookin' for ye both, Hiccup."

Hiccup gulps.

"Strike fast," Gobber rumbles. "Strike hard, and get out. Ye're no heavyweight, but ye're a clever boy, and fast on yer feet. If ye can keep them from getting ahold o' ye, ye'll have a chance out there."

Hiccup nods. "Strike fast, strike hard," he repeats. "Got it." It's the best advice he's likely to get. He clenches his fists; the paper under his hand rustles, and they both glance at the sketch. Astrid's penciled eyes stare fiercely up at them.

"She's got plenty o' sponsors, lad," Gobber says. "Half the Capitol's in love with her. Ye don't have to worry about our Astrid."

Hiccup takes a deep breath. "When she gets home -"

Gobber's hand tightens on his shoulder. "Hiccup, ye don't _know_ she'll win," he tries to interrupt, but Hiccup gives him an exasperated look, and he falls silent.

"When she gets home," he insists, "tell her...I'm sorry. And congratulations, from me." She deserves to win this, and go home to her family, and be happy; and Hiccup knows it. Half the Capitol can get in line.

Gobber gives him a long, thoughtful look. "I never took ye for the giving-up type," he says, almost gently.

Hiccup manages a crooked grin. "Oh, don't count me out yet," he says; mostly because Gobber needs to hear it, needs to pass it on to his father, but still. It's true; for all his pessimism, he can't quite settle to the idea that this is hopeless. His mind is still buzzing like a fly in a jar, struggling to find a way out.

"There's a good lad," Gobber says. He tousles Hiccup's hair with one meaty hand in a way that probably shakes his brain loose, and then he's up and limping out the door.

Right. Hiccup bites his lip, thinking. If he's _not_ giving up, then he ought to get a good night's sleep...

_Ha_. And then for his next trick, he'll grow wings and fly out of the arena. He snorts, and picks up his pencil again.


	22. The Launch Room

.

**THE LAUNCH ROOM**

* * *

The room is silent and sterile, all gleaming metal surfaces and antiseptic plastic. Jack sits on a glossy white sofa that feels like it could be hosed down without damage, and rubs absently at the sore spot on his arm where his tracker was injected. Fear is curling up around his bones like slow-growing ivy, twining its way toward his heart.

He shoves it fiercely down again. It doesn't matter. All that matters is reaching his sister in time.

Across the room, Ana gives a little sigh and rubs at her cheek with the back of one hand. His stylist has barely spoken all morning, picking at her breakfast while he stubbornly wolfed down his last chance at hot food. She didn't even comment on the utilitarian plainness of his uniform as she helped him dress; he would have figured it would be a personal insult to her sensibilities. Jack glances over at her, curious in spite of himself.

There are actual tears in her eyes, brimming on her feathery false lashes. She blinks, and a drop spills over and rolls down her cheek, leaving a wet green trail.

"Ana?" Jack says, confused in spite of himself. "You okay?"

"I didn't go to design school for this, you know," she says, softly. "I wanted to create jewelry. Mementoes, you know? Things that would be beautiful _and_ precious." She sniffs. "But I was the top of my class. So they sent me here, to...to watch ch-children..."

She trails off without finishing her sentence. A shiver runs down Jack's spine. Isn't this the kind of thing nobody's supposed to say? But if there are any cameras in the launching rooms, his stylist doesn't seem to care. He's never seen her like this, never seen her show an emotion other than giddy excitement. Didn't know she was capable of it.

"I," he says, and isn't sure what to follow it with. In the silence, Ana crosses the room to sit by him, and gives him a sad little smile.

"You're very fashionable in the Capitol right now, you know. Everyone's buzzing about Jack Forrester and his sister." She wipes at her face with the inside of her tattooed wrist, smudging the iridescent paint around her eyes. "I think you'll have a lot of sponsors. You really do have a chance out there."

He thinks this over, and nods. It's nothing to bank on, but it's nice to know. "Do you-" he starts to say, but the speaker in the wall hisses into life.

"All tributes, prepare for launch." The recorded voice is calm and authoritative.

Jack winces. "Well, that's my stop," he says, and tries for a cocky grin. It turns out lopsided. "End of the line."

She catches his wrist as he starts to stand, and blurts, "I asked the girls to put your sister's hair back the way it was. I thought it might help if she had something to do, you know...before the launch. I...I hope that was right." Her jewel-bright eyes are earnest.

It's suddenly hard for Jack to swallow. Why did he ever think she looked like a freak? She didn't create these games. "That's perfect," he says, and turns his hand to clasp hers for a brief moment, fingers interlacing. "Thank you." And he means it.

She looks relieved, and manages a watery smile. "I'm sorry we didn't get a chance to do yours, too."

It's not hard to grin this time, flashing teeth as white as his hair. "Nah, it's okay," he assures her. "You were right. It looks fierce. I could use a little fierce."

"Sixty seconds to launch," comes the calm recorded voice, and Jack makes a face. The metal circle on the floor is waiting. He steps back onto it, and releases Ana's hand. She folds her fingers together in an anxious gesture, still hovering near him like a frantic hummingbird. His silly, colorful, kind-hearted stylist.

"Good luck, Jack-" she starts to say, and then the glass tube slides down and lifts him away.

He blows her a kiss as she drops out of sight.


	23. The Bloodbath

.

**THE BLOODBATH**

* * *

A gentle breeze touches Hiccup's face, and ruffles his hair like a friend. He can feel warm sunlight against his skin. _Well, at least we're not in a desert. Maybe._ He takes a deep breath, shuddering with panicky nerves and the mechanical rumble of the rising plate beneath his feet, and opens his eyes.

"Ladies and gentlemen, let the Sixty-eighth Hunger Games begin!"

Oh. _Oh._ Hiccup's mouth twitches up into a seasick smile. At least if he has to die, it's gonna be in the most beautiful place he's ever seen.

The Cornucopia lies in front of him; the other tributes stand on their plates, ranged around it, eyeing each other warily as the countdown echoes overhead. And around them is nature like Hiccup has never experienced it. The arena is a valley tucked between the slopes of vast forested mountains, with dust and scrub and long grass and decaying leaves underfoot. High above them, the rough bare trunks of evergreens soar up into the blue sky. Silvery waterfalls tumble here and there down the steep stone cliffs. It's a terrifyingly lovely place, harsh and merciless and magnificent.

"Thirty-one...thirty..."

The boom of the countdown jolts Hiccup back to reality, and he grits his teeth and focuses. He hasn't got time to stand here marveling; he's got to be _ready_, got to come up with a plan, got to _think!_ Strike fast, strike hard, and get out...that was what Gobber said, right?

There are all kinds of bags and knapsacks and tools scattered on the ground between him and the Cornucopia, but they're too far to reach easily. The only thing nearby is a water bottle - not worth the risk with this much water around - unless they're going to poison it? No, they'd lose _all_ the tributes...the tributes!

Hiccup looks to his right, and sees the huge roughneck from District Two, meaty fists clenched at his sides. Right, _not_ going that way. To his left is the tiny kid from District Five - didn't her hair used to be white? She's shifting from foot to foot, crouched down like she's getting ready to run. Maybe if Hiccup races straight in, then straight out again, he can pick up something useful before the big guy comes back for him?

He feels his teeth chattering and realizes belatedly that he's shaking, so hard he's surprised he hasn't fallen right off his plate, yeah, that's exactly what he needs, to blow his legs off before the Games have even started -

"One," booms the voice, and everything goes crazy.

There's motion all around him. The little kid is running, running, _gone_ into the fringes of the woods with a crash of shrubbery. Good for her, but where's the big guy?

Hiccup doesn't know, he - he still isn't off his plate, it's too late for planning now, he should be running but he can barely feel his feet. Someone shrieks, and he turns toward the Cornucopia just in time to see a kid get mowed down by a Career girl swinging a scythe. Blood sprays into the air.

Dozens of feet are pounding the stony ground all around him, churning up choking clouds of dust. Tributes grapple, scream, snarl, plead, and die, scrabbling in the dry dirt. A boy runs out of the chaos and trips, dropping the cardboard box he was clutching as another boy follows him down with a spear. The box bursts open; matches and blood spill across the ground.

Hiccup can't _breathe_. The smell, oh, god, it's like a fresh pig slaughter, ripe and salty. Think, think! He...he needs supplies, right, he needs a weapon! Another scream splits the air, then trails off into a wet gurgle. Think, _think_...oh, god, this is _impossible!_ The supplies are in the Cornucopia and the Cornucopia is a _killing ground..._

The duststorm whirls, and a girl emerges into the open air at a run, panting, bloodstreaked, clutching a dripping axe, with a heavy pack on her back and another bag dangling from her free hand. Her flashing eyes are steely blue and wild with adrenaline.

Astrid.

Hot terror thaws Hiccup's frozen body in a flash. She hasn't seen him yet, but she will in a minute. Wide-eyed, he takes a stumbling step back, then another...then turns, and bolts for the trees.


End file.
